


Memories Of A Lifetime

by mariuspondmercy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Feuilly-centric, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:25:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9471269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariuspondmercy/pseuds/mariuspondmercy
Summary: Some things, Feuilly desperately wanted to remember but couldn't. Some he wanted to forget but knew it was impossible. And some he wanted to keep in his memory for as long as possible.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lifefindsaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifefindsaway/gifts).



> So this is actually half a year old but I just realised I never posted it. Well, here we go!

At age three, Feuilly had had a family. He didn't remember them, but they had been there. 

His mother, mousy-brown hair always braided, had made him pudding for his birthday - the expensive brand, because her children deserved the best on their birthdays. She had hugged him every day, read bedtime stories to him and any sibling willing to listen in. But Feuilly didn't remember. 

At age three, he was the youngest of five. His siblings ranged from six to thirteen, two boys and three girls in total. He had been the apple of their eyes, adored, pampered, protected. One time, when he had been merely two years old, Feuilly had been scratched by the family's cat. In an instant, his middle sister had been by his side, cooing over him, soothing his shock with kind words and sweet kisses. But Feuilly didn't remember. 

At age three, he had been doted on, loved by an uncle who would move the stars and the moon for his sister and her small family. He played with him, had Feuilly let ride on his back, neighing like a horse, with small chubby hands in his hair. But Feuilly didn't remember. 

*

At age thirteen, Feuilly had had many families, and none at the same time. He wished he didn't remember them, but the memories were fresh in his mind. The first couple had taken him in at the age of five, just we after his mother's death.

A round-faced woman and a man with crinkly eyes was all that Feuilly remembered. They had been kind but tragedy struck the family, leaving the man paralysed. The local priest had not agreed for them to take in the child and one of his siblings. Feuilly wished he didn't remember. 

The second couple had taken him in at the age of seven, alone without siblings. The house had been cold, both in atmosphere and love. He was one of six children there. This time again, the local priest had taken every child away after a year of Feuilly being in the family. He had come into a new orphanage, without his real siblings, without his adopted siblings. Feuilly wished he didn't remember. 

The last couple had taken him in at the age of ten. They hadn't been nice to him. They hadn't been unkind, just indifferent. He ran away a total of seventeen times before they had given him up again. Feuilly wished he didn't remember.

At age thirteen, Feuilly had long accepted France as his mother, her citizens as his siblings. He had forgotten his brothers and sister, had forgotten their kindness, their mother and uncle. He remembered lonely nights with twenty people in a single room, remembered scarce breakfasts and even scarcer dinners. He remembered indifference, coldness, disappointments, rage in eyes and hearts. He wished he didn't remember.

*

At age twenty-three, Feuilly had found what he thought was a new family. Carpenters, fan makers, glaziers who worked with him, laughed with him. Feuilly hoped he would remember this forever.

At the age of twenty-three, he had taught himself how to read and write properly. He had learned bits and pieces here and there, but now he could proudly look upon instructions for intricate fan designs and knew it was all his doing, and his alone. Feuilly hoped he would remember this forever.

At the age of twenty-three, his hands were calloused, soft and tiny scars littered his hands and fingers. It all came from hard work, from being independent. It was a good feeling. Sometimes he wondered what had happened to his siblings – not his biological ones, he didn’t even remember them anymore. His new family though, Feuilly hoped he would remember them forever.

*

At age thirty-three, Feuilly knew for certain he had found a new family. France would forever stay his mother, but he had found brothers and sisters in souls as pure as rain. And Feuilly remembered.

There was Enjolras, who looked up to Feuilly for God-knew which reasons. Enjolras, who had the most charming smile, straight from his heart. Feuilly remembered the first time he’d ever seen it, warming his heart on a rainy May night.

There was Bossuet, who managed to turn every dire situation around. Bossuet, who was bald as an eagle but flew just as high. Feuilly remembered the first time he’d met him, bumping into a table while simultaneously burning his a hole into the sleeve of his coat, commenting that at least he had helped fulfil the candle’s life purpose.

There was Courfeyrac, who was always the centre of attention but never really wanted to be. Courfeyrac, who was the glue that kept his friends together, who needed his friends to keep himself together. Feuilly remembered the first time he’d ever witnessed this incredible talent of his, soothing a worried Jehan with the simple touch of his hand.

There was Joly, who was the happiest fellow he had ever met. Joly, who was sickly and scared but was brave enough to become a doctor, to give hope to others. Feuilly remembered the first time he’d seen Joly smile upon a young urchin who had scraped his knee running away from a police man.

There was Combeferre, who engaged everyone in discussions about the moon and the stars. Combeferre, who would stop at a street’s corner, admiring a small pebble before carefully collecting it. Feuilly remembered the first walk Combeferre had taken him on, along the Seine, dragging Feuilly into the fascinating realm of stone.

There was Marius, who had come into their merry little group like a whirlwind. Marius, whom no-one really knew, not after Combeferre had shut him down efficiently and Marius had never turned up again. Feuilly remembered the first time he had met Marius, the shine in the boy’s eyes at the prospect of finding friends, only to be crushed mere days later.

There was Jehan, who went against everything. Jehan, who happily wore flower vests and green pants while raging about the discrimination against the poorest. Feuilly remembered the first time he had heard the timid poet rave about injustice, heart full of sorrow.

There was Grantaire, the cynic. Grantaire, who loved so deeply and fiercely that it had torn him apart for years on end now. Feuilly remembered the first time he had been amazed at how this heart full of love shattered and mended itself.

There was Éponine, the daughter of wolves. Éponine, who was just as much an orphan as Feuilly was, who had taken the darker part in life. Feuilly remembered the first time he’d met Éponine, cowering in the dark and the rain, waiting for the sun to shine and Marius to notice her.

There was Gavroche, Enjolras in small. Gavroche, who admired all his friends and looked up to them with brightness in his eyes and his soul. Feuilly remembered the first time he’d heart the boy laugh, melting any pain or fear in an instant.

There was Bahorel, kind and smart and brawling. Bahorel, who was probably the worst person to surround yourself with but who made not only Grantaire smile. Feuilly remembered the first time he had met the man, boasting about some boxing victory while petting a stray dog and throwing them half his bread.

At the age of thirty-three, Feuilly remembered gladly.

*

At age forty-four, Feuilly had his own family. And he vowed to never forget loving them, to never forget their love.

At the age of forty-four, Feuilly’s family was unconventional. Officially, he was still a bachelor, still a fan-maker, still an orphan. But every night there was a large hand in his hair, combing through the locks softly, whispering loving words into his ear and pressing sweet kisses onto his throat. Feuilly vowed to never forget a single word or touch.

At the age of forty-four, two pairs of chubby little hands latched onto his vest every evening he came home, big smiles and tooth-gaps present. Of course, there was no way he could officially claim them as his children, but finding two crying newborn babies next to the docks and raising them with a partner for the past two years surely meant he was their father now.

At the age of forty-four, he had found his uncle again. Now the old man with white hair came to visit once a week, smiling upon the children, reminding Feuilly of his mother and his siblings. Valjean’s memory wasn’t always correct, but Feuilly couldn’t remember a single thing, so every memory – no matter how false or true – was precious. Feuilly vowed to never forget his children’s first steps, their first words, Valjean’s kind smile, Cosette’s warm hugs.

At the age of forty-four, his life was far from perfect but it was the most perfect it could ever be.

 


End file.
